“I wanted you to be my leading lady, Hannah,” he yelled over the churning, noisy din of the train yard. He took the knife away from Guy’s throat for a moment, only to wipe the blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand. “I was pulling all the strings for you,” he went on, the blade against Guy’s neck once again. “I was watching over you, Hannah, protecting you. I have hours and hours of screen-test footage I shot of you. What a fucking waste. You could have been my leading lady. But you’re just as bad as those other bitches who came before you.” He shook his head at her. “At least when it didn’t work out with them, I got to film their death scenes. They were sacrificed for my art. At least I had something to show for my efforts with them. But you, Hannah, you’ve left me with nothing.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Seth,” she said. “I mean
He glared at her. “You think you’re very clever,” he retorted. “You don’t know what sorry is yet.”
He dragged Guy over to the other side of the huge, open door. He glanced back at a train approaching in the distance. Holding Guy under the chin, Richard pushed him toward the opening. “Ever see anyone thrown in front of a moving train before?” he asked.
Guy shrieked.
“Please, no…” Hannah begged. Poised on the other side of the door, she reached back for the railroad spike tucked in the waistband of her jeans. The train was coming closer, picking up speed. The sound of its grinding engine grew louder.
Richard laughed. Again, he took the knife away from Guy’s throat so he could wipe the blood out of his eyes.
Just then, the car gave a jolt that shook all three of them. Suddenly, they were moving.
Guy broke away from him. At the same moment, Hannah lunged at Richard, stabbing him in the shoulder with the rail spike. He dropped his knife and howled in pain.
The deafening noise from the train wheels and engines drowned out his cries. The boxcar rocked and quaked as it picked up speed.
Grabbed hold of the sliding door, Richard managed to stay on his feet. He pulled the spike from his shoulder. Blood leaked down his jacket.
Crouched near the floor on the other side of the opening, Hannah pulled Guy behind her. Richard was breathing hard as he came at them. He shook his head and said something. But she couldn’t hear what it was.
The car took another jolt. Richard lost his balance. Reeling toward the edge of the open door, he clawed at Hannah and managed to grab hold of her sleeve.
But she clung to a latch on the door.
His arms flailing, Richard fell out of the boxcar—into the path of the oncoming train.
There was a loud blast from the engine. The brakes screeched. Hannah pulled Guy toward her, shielding his face. She turned away as well. She didn’t want to see Richard Kidd mangled and crushed under the locomotive.
Watching people die had been something he liked. But not her, and not her little boy.
Curling up against the wall of the boxcar, Hannah held onto Guy. Wind swept through the open door. They were both shivering. “It’s okay, honey,” she assured him. “We’re both all right.”
“’Kay,” he said in a small voice.
She felt him nodding against her shoulder.
Hannah patted him on the back. “It was just like a nightmare, sweetie,” she said, over the churning locomotive. “But we’re safe now. Everything’s all right.”
He stopped crying. Hannah rocked him in her arms. “Listen to the choo-choo train, Guy,” she whispered. “Listen to the train….”
Epilogue
The nightmare wasn’t over for Hannah.
Guy was taken from her. She spent the night at a women’s holding center at the King County jail. At least they gave her a private cell.
Another small solace, Guy got to stay with Joyce—and not in some children’s shelter.
Hannah had called her from the emergency room of Tacoma General, near the rail yard. Joyce had made it to the hospital by cab five minutes before the Seattle detectives showed up. Guy had been released into her care.
Hannah, who had severe bruises on her leg and face, had been taken back to Seattle—in handcuffs.
On Saturday afternoon, Jennifer Dorn Podowski was making arrangements for her husband. She handled everything on-line and on the phone. She’d instructed the Seattle Medical Examiner’s office to have the remains flown to New York after the autopsy. The body would be buried in a cemetery not far from their home in Croton- on-Hudson.
Ben said it was the least they could do for Rae. She had no family.
That Saturday morning, police had searched a ravine in north Capital Hill, and they’d found her remains, wrapped in a plastic sheet buried in a shallow grave. They knew where to look, thanks to Ben.
He’d spent Friday night in Harbor View Hospital, where doctors reset his broken left arm, then put it in a cast. They also sewed seventeen stitches in that same shoulder. There were dozens of other cuts and abrasions from the broken glass, and some second-degree burns from the explosion.
The police detectives who questioned Ben in his hospital bed said he was lucky to be alive.
Another bit of luck; they’d found two videotapes in a plastic bag hidden under his torn, seared shirt. He’d given the tapes to the cop who had discovered him. Bloody, charred, covered with dirt and debris, he’d been wandering near the recycling bins of the apartment building across the street from Richard Kidd’s residence—or what was left of it. The cop had written on his report that Ben Podowski had appeared dazed and incoherent.
But Ben had known exactly what he was doing at the time.
The first tape had Seth Stroud ascending the church tower, talking to his friend with the camera. Between the two of them, they made references to the boat explosion, a plot to kill Hannah Doyle, and Richard Kidd’s booby-trapped house.
If that wasn’t enough to shed light on their culpability in this killing spree, the second video showed Richard stabbing Rae Palmer, and Seth Stroud helping dispose of the body.
While detectives in the East Precinct were viewing the tapes and becoming more interested in the whereabouts of Hannah Doyle, their colleagues were interviewing Ben Podowski in Harbor View Hospital’s emergency ward. The doctor on duty didn’t appreciate the constant police presence while sewing up his patient.
Ben kept asking to use the phone. He wanted to call the Best Western Executive Inn. He had to find out if Hannah had left a message, and make sure she was all right. But the police kept telling him that if he needed to phone anyone, they’d make the call for him. The doctor finally had to knock Ben out with a sedative, because he wouldn’t sit still.
He woke up at seven o’clock that night, in a hospital bed. He was covered with bandages and salve for his burns. A nurse was there. And a couple of detectives were waiting to talk with him. Ben’s first words were: “Is Hannah okay? Hannah Doyle?”
“Yes, we have her in custody,” one of the detectives answered.
They questioned him for the next two and a half hours. At Ben’s suggestion, the police interviewed Paul
